gift, cara.” Those dark, deep-set eyes were amused and exciting. “Unlike a skill that’s developed and trained.”
So, he was laughing at both of them, she realized. It would be both difficult and wise not to like him for it.
When her steak was served, Juliet glanced at it. Carlo, however, studied his veal as though it were a fine old painting. No, Juliet realized after a moment, he studied it as though it were a young, beautiful woman.
“Appearances,” he told her, “in food, as in people, are essential.” He was smiling at her when he cut into the veal. “And, as in people, they can be deceiving.”
Juliet watched him sample the first bite, slowly, his eyes halfclosed. She felt an odd chill at the base of her spine. He’d sample a woman the same way, she was certain. Slowly.
“Pleasant,” he said after a moment. “No more, no less.”
She couldn’t prevent the quick smirk as she cut into her steak. “Yours is better of course.”
He moved his shoulders. A statement of arrogance. “Of course. Like comparing a pretty young girl with a beautiful woman.” When she glanced up he was holding out his fork. Over it, his eyes studied her. “Taste,” he invited and the simple word made her blood shiver. “Nothing should ever go untasted, Juliet.”
She shrugged, letting him feed her the tiny bite of veal. It was spicy, just bordering on rich and hot on her tongue. “It’s good.”
“Good, sì. Nothing Franconi prepares is ever merely good. Good, I’d pour into the garbage, feed to the dogs in the alley.” She laughed, delighting him. “If something isn’t special, then it’s ordinary.”
“True enough.” Without realizing it, she slipped out of her shoes. “But then, I suppose I’ve always looked at food as a basic necessity.”
“Necessity?” Carlo shook his head. Though he’d heard such sentiment before, he still considered it a sacrilege. “Oh, madonna, you have much to learn. When one knows how to eat, how to appreciate, it’s second only to making love. Scents, textures, tastes. To eat only to fill your stomach? Barbaric.”
“Sorry.” Juliet took another bite of steak. It was tender and cooked well. But it was only a piece of meat. She’d never have considered it sensual or romantic, but simply filling. “Is that why you became a cook? Because you think food’s sexy?”
He winced. “Chef, cara mia.”
She grinned, showing him for the first time a streak of humor and mischief. “What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference between a plow horse and a thorough-bred? Plaster and porcelain?”
Enjoying herself, she touched her tongue to the rim of her glass. “Some might say dollar signs.”
“No, no, no, my love. Money is only a result, not a cause. A cook makes hamburgers in a greasy kitchen that smells of onions behind a counter where people squeeze plastic bottles of ketchup. A chef creates…” He gestured, a circle of a hand. “An experience.”
She lifted her glass and swept her lashes down, but she didn’t hide the smile. “I see.”
Though he could be offended by a look when he chose, and be ruthless with the offender, Carlo liked her style. “You’re amused. But you haven’t tasted Franconi.” He waited until her eyes, both wry and wary, lifted to him. “Yet.”
He had a talent for turning the simplest statement into something erotic, she observed. It would be a challenge to skirt around him without giving way. “But you haven’t told me why you became a chef.”
“I can’t paint or sculpt. I haven’t the patience or the talent to compose sonnets. There are other ways to create, to embrace art.”
She saw, with surprise mixed with respect, that he was quite serious. “But paintings, sculpture and poetry remain centuries after they’ve been created. If you make a soufflé, it’s here, then it’s gone.”
“Then the challenge is to make it again, and again. Art needn’t be put behind glass or bronzed, Juliet, merely appreciated. I have a friend…” He thought of Summer Lyndon—no, Summer Cocharan now. “She makes pastries like an angel. When you eat one, you’re a king.”
“Then is cooking magic or art?”
“Both. Like love. And I think you, Juliet Trent, eat much too little.”
She met his look as he’d hoped she would. “I don’t believe in overindulgence, Mr. Franconi. It leads to carelessness.”
“To indulgence then.” He lifted his glass. The smile was back, charming and dangerous. “Carefully.”
Anything and everything could go wrong. You had to expect it, anticipate it and avoid it. Juliet knew just how much could be botched in a twenty-minute, live interview at 7:30 A.M. on a Monday. You hoped for the best and made do with the not too bad. Even she didn’t expect perfection on the first day of a tour.
It wasn’t easy to explain why she was annoyed when she got it.
The morning spot went beautifully. There was no other way to describe it, Juliet decided as she watched Liz Marks talk and laugh with Carlo after the camera stopped taping. If a shrewd operator could be called a natural, Carlo was indeed a natural. During the interview, he’d subtly and completely dominated the show while charmingly blinding his host to it. Twice he’d made the ten-year veteran of morning talk shows giggle like a girl. Once, once, Juliet remembered with astonishment, she’d seen the woman blush.
Yeah. She shifted the strap of her heavy briefcase on her arm. Franconi was a natural. It was bound to make her job easier. She yawned and cursed him.
Juliet always slept well in hotel rooms. Always. Except for last night. She might’ve been able to convince someone else that too much coffee and first-day jitters had kept her awake. But she knew better. She could drink a pot of coffee at ten and fall asleep on command at eleven. Her system was very disciplined. Except for last night.
She’d nearly dreamed of him. If she hadn’t shaken herself awake at 2:00 A.M., she would have dreamed of him. That was no way to begin a very important, very long author tour. She told herself now if she had to choose between some silly fantasies and honest fatigue, she’d take the fatigue.
Stifling another yawn, Juliet checked her watch. Liz had her arm tucked through Carlo’s and looked as though she’d keep it there unless someone pried her loose. With a sigh, Juliet decided she’d have to be the crowbar.
“Ms. Marks, it was a wonderful show.” As she crossed over, Juliet deliberately held out her hand. With obvious reluctance, Liz disengaged herself from Carlo and accepted it.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Trent,” Juliet supplied without a waver.
“Juliet is my publicist,” Carlo told Liz, though the two women had been introduced less than an hour earlier. “She guards my schedule.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid I’ll have to rush Mr. Franconi along. He has a radio spot in a half-hour.”
“If
